


Back and Forth

by daisybelle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post-Reichenbach, break-up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 19:03:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisybelle/pseuds/daisybelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade had built his life from scratch after Sherlock's death. Now it seems that not only Sherlock's suicide was a lie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back and Forth

**Author's Note:**

> The beautiful art for this fic was created by duod.
> 
> Beta-work by the lovely bravofiftyone. (All remaining mistakes are mine.) The title is also her brilliant suggestion.

__

_Four months after Sherlock’s return_

 

Greg stares at the glowing figures on his alarm clock waiting for the signal to get up. He hasn’t slept very well, but that’s nothing new. Sometimes he wonders if there was ever a time when he managed eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. If he ever did, it was a lifetime ago.

 

The alarm blares to life and he tiredly silences it. Getting up makes him feel much older than he is, and the rain drumming against his window does nothing to lighten his mood. He runs through his morning routine on automatic, barely tasting the hot coffee that burns down his throat. The caffeine has practically no effect; it’s the slight shiver in the cold morning air that gets through the fog in his head.

 

He is one of the first to arrive at the Yard, getting another coffee, but this time it is more for the sake of warmth than anything else. His emails are quickly checked and he finishes his paper work from the evening before. It is a plus point – without any private life he has no problems keeping up with bureaucracy. It also helps that he still doesn’t call on Sherlock (the detective who lived). As interesting those cases were, the documentation afterwards had always been a nightmare.

 

Another mark in the pro column is the chance to look at some of his cold cases, trying to see a new angle. Some days he has an idea, and it is a good feeling even if there is no visible progress. At least it keeps the shadows at bay. He is re-reading the file of a murdered 19 year old girl (Alicia Maxwell, kindergarten teacher, main suspect the ex-boyfriend) when the superintendent calls.

 

Sally is already waiting for him when he leaves the man’s office, still surprised that he was chosen to take over the Cutterham Case from Brannings. It is a high profile case that had received a lot of media attention. The cynical part of him wonders whether Brannings is stuck and they need the black sheep of the yard to take the blame, but decides not to care. At least it is something other than a break-in gone wrong or a love triangle with an old man, his mistress and a very sharp knife.

 

It is indeed something other. For the first time in a long while Greg has the feeling he needs a dictionary to understand all the fancy words in the autopsy report. And the best part about it is the pathologist’s explanation that further analysis is necessary, which apparently can only be done in Edinburgh. And of course, the only expert for this kind of analysis has so much to do that they end up on the waiting list. Hoping that appearing in person might move their analysis up the list, Greg goes to Scotland.  

 

One of the good things he had learnt while working with Sherlock was the ability to patiently outwait the genius until he offered an explanation that was actually comprehensible. It comes in handy when he has to wait almost 30 minutes for the forensic expert, Prof Wilkinson, at the lab. Another lesson learned while working with Sherlock was the ability to take surprises as they come. Even when they come in the form of your ex-girlfriend being the new student of said expert.

 

* * *

 

_Text message from Greg Lestrade to Molly Hooper (unsent)_

_It was nice seeing you again. Of course, Sherlock solved the case when I got home. Have you seen him since you went to Edinburgh? Not that it is any of my business._

 

 

* * *

 

_Three days after Sherlock’s return_

 

Greg sees Sherlock again after his great reappearance act at the Yard, walking the floors with John behind him as if nothing had happened. He can’t help but stare through the glass walls of the superintendent’s office, taking in the relaxed posture of everybody involved. Sherlock with his usual dramatic flailing, John with his military posture. It is easy to picture their faces having seen them often enough in his own office – Sherlock the centre of attention and John reining him in when he borders on insulting. Greg doesn’t understand their relationship, has never completely done so, but as close as they were before, how can John forgive him, how can you forgive a friend something like that?

 

But maybe he isn’t one to talk. If he is honest with himself (and the last days have been an exercise in exactly that) he hadn’t been the best friend for John either. Hiding behind his own guilt and John’s grief. And then the thing with Molly. How could he have contacted John when Sherlock’s suicide had given him a seemingly perfect relationship in return?

 

And now? Now Sherlock is back and has re-appropriated everything he had given up. John, his consulting business, Molly ... Greg chokes on this thought. It still fucking hurts and he feels the anger burning in him. It’s the anger that gives him the strength to look away. He catches Sally’s gaze through the windows of his own office but he can’t read her. She comes into his office, holding a file, and Greg wonders what she saw on his face.

 

They keep up their charade when she closes the door behind her, both aware of everybody watching them. Even in his office he can feel the tension, tension built up by Sherlock and his bloody return. His colleagues are of course not openly watching, but he can feel their eyes penetrating his own skin.

 

The file is on the Burley-case, a straight ~~-~~ forward murder-suicide. The final forensic report is the only thing missing, but as he looks at the preliminaries nothing seems amiss.

 

“He came to my flat the other day.”

 

Greg looks up, inquiring.

 

“Sherlock. Just stood there, smoking. Like the first time I met him.”

 

He doesn’t know what to say, isn’t even sure he wants to know. Sally huffs a breath, almost a bitter laugh. “Said he was glad it was me. Proving finally that he was right about me. That I was clever.”

 

Greg waits to see if she adds anything, but when the moment stretches, he takes it as his cue.

 

“What did you say?”

 

“I asked him if he ever thought about how I felt.”

 

He is sure he knows the answer to that, but he asks anyway.

 

“And?”

 

“He said he had always assumed I would have slept better knowing that a dangerous psychopath was no longer a danger to London’s safety.”

 

“Fuck.” It does sound exactly like something Sherlock would say. And he is ashamed to admit that in his darkest hours he thought the same of her, a simple justification of the means.

 

“I mean what do you say to that?”

 

Greg watches her, tries to read her for the first time in a long while. Their relationship had been strained and it is still not fully repaired, probably never will be. But what had always bound them was being those who tried to arrest Sherlock before his suicide. It’s not the best bond, but it is gluey and inescapable.

 

“Was he right?”

 

Their eyes meet and he doesn’t think she will answer him. He closes the file and gives it back to her. She straightens and turns to leave his office.

 

“Sally, …” He hesitates, but then continues. “It wasn’t your fault what happened.”

 

He has surprised her. For a moment they look at each other. “I know, Sir.”

 

His gaze follows her out of his office. It’s more instinct than anything else when he lets his gaze wander further, only to be stopped by Sherlock. He can’t read his expression at this distance, but he takes the three steps to the windows and closes the blinds. It’s the cowardly thing to do, he knows that, but at the moment cowardice is much easier.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Text message from Greg Lestrade to Molly Hooper (unsent)_

_It was nice seeing you again. How is the course going? When will you be back in London?_

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Two weeks after Sherlock’s return_

A box of Greg’s things arrives a week later. It’s not all of his stuff but a key and an address are fixed on the box with sellotape. Using his lunch break for a quick inquiry, he finds the rest of his clothes, books and other personal belongings neatly packed away in a storage room. Since he is still living in a hotel, he just grabs some more clothes for change and spends the rest of his break flat-hunting. Three days later he is lucky, but when he stands in the middle of his new one-room-apartment it’s clear that maybe luck had nothing to do with it. Even with his personal belongings scattered around, the little flat is simply depressing.

 

Maybe that is why he starts spending much more time at the yard. He is grudgingly allowed back on murder cases, only learning from the gossip that Sherlock is consulting again, but this time very much officially. He even gets paid. Greg hasn’t spoken to him since he was accosted by him at the pub. He has seen him again twice not counting the day Sherlock met the superintendent, but thus far Greg has managed to ignore the half-hearted attempts on Sherlock’s and John’s side. And since he has to climb back up the food chain he is not responsible for the really interesting high profile cases, so he has no need to call the detective to a crime scene. He has also not been to the morgue. That’s the beauty of relatively simple cases. Not everything needs to be done at high speed. Sometimes he could simply wait for the autopsy report to be sent to him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Two months after Sherlock’s return_

 

It’s on one of those late evenings, when he avoids his flat of grey, that he finds Molly’s letter again. The letter she wrote to him when he left her. Actually he is systematically checking his desk and all the drawers for a still working pen. But the pen is forgotten when he sees his name again on the envelope. He slides his fingertip over it and the heartache that had always been suppressed by the anger and the jealousy is suddenly there – sharp and burning, swallowing him whole.

 

He doesn’t know how much time has passed, how much of his heart had bled out. The letter is still unopened when he leaves the office, slipping his jacket on while he walks past the empty desks.

 

It’s a short drive to Molly’s flat. The front door of her apartment building is still open as it used to be when he lived there (and it had driven him mad, this ignorance of simple safety rules). He doesn’t wait for the elevator, simply runs up the stairs, taking two steps at once. The familiar sound of the door bell and the steps behind the door. He almost feels the hesitation when the peep hole is checked and for the first time he wonders if he is too late, if he has really ruined this.

 

The door is opening and the answer is obvious. It’s not Molly standing in front of him, it’s another man. Ten years younger than him, athletic build, dark curls. Of course, he checked the door bell, but it still says Molly’s name and he recognises the pictures behind the man, had helped to put them on the wall. Vaguely he registers that the man is saying something, but it is drowned out in the rush of his blood, turning his stomach in a hard ball of turmoil, and the sound of the running shower.

 

Greg mutters something; it might even be an excuse, before he descends again, much slower and with one hand on the railing to keep himself from falling.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Text message from Greg Lestrade to Molly Hooper (sent)_

_It was nice seeing you again. How is the course going? Sherlock solved the case by the way._

                                                                                                                            

 

* * *

 

 

_One week after Sherlock’s return_

 

It has been a week.

 

A week since Greg learned that Sherlock was alive.

 

A week since Greg learned that his girlfriend helped Sherlock fake his death.

 

A week since he realised that apparently he and Molly haven’t been on the same page, relationship-wise.

 

He stayed all those nights at the hotel, barely sleeping, still clutching the same bottle of cheap whiskey that had brought him through the first night. He hasn’t needed to buy new clothes. An overnight bag had been placed on his desk at the yard – enough clothes and toiletries to survive a few days. And even more if he uses the launderette at the corner. Molly also packed his keys and a letter. He had shoved both in the lowest drawer of his desk, sometimes using his coffee break to stare at the envelope.

 

His name is on the outside, written the way she uses to write him messages, not her doctor scrawl that leaves him guessing more often than not. Of course he knows that in this envelope is an explanation, but he is torn about it. On the one hand he wants to know, wants her apology. But not in a letter, not in something that was composed over several hours, written again and again until it sounds right. He feels that he needs more, needs to see her face and her eyes, watching her telling the story with her hands and with her mouth so that he can read the truth from her. That’s why it is still unopened in his drawer.

 

Today is the first day that he feels a bit better, the day Donovan doesn’t give him the look usually reserved for rookies who spend the previous night drinking and are now unable to keep their stomach’s contents to themselves. Greg grabs one of the case files that really requires a talk with the pathologist and leaves for morgue. He knows the way, down to the number of steps it takes from the front door to the examination room, listens for the screech of the access door. His steps sound loud in the hallway while he steels himself, gripping the file harder than necessary. As if it is his lifeline. Maybe it is.

 

He hesitates for one second before he pushes the door open, but the moment to collect himself wasn’t enough. Couldn’t have been enough for the picture he is now presented with.

 

Sherlock hugging Molly.

 

He doesn’t know if he has ever seen Sherlock willingly hugging somebody. But he can read Molly’s body language. She is relaxed, she hugs him tightly as if she wants to crawl completely in the hollowed space between his arms. Greg knows how Molly hugs, he has been on the receiving end often enough.

 

It still looks unreal, and maybe it is. After all Sherlock was dead until a week ago. A lifetime away.

 

He remembers a lifetime ago when he first met Molly. Years ago, when she was new at Bart’s and Sherlock introduced them. If he is honest he hadn’t taken her seriously back then, since it was obvious she was smitten with Sherlock, staring at the detective with her big brown eyes full of adoration.

 

Greg is pulled back from his memory when the couple in front of him stirs. He doesn’t wait until they are parted, doesn’t want to know if the look in Molly’s eyes would be the same as all those years ago. He simply turns and leaves the morgue and walks into the nearest pub.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Text message from Molly Hooper to Greg Lestrade (sent)_

_Hello Greg, the course is great and I’m learning so much. I will stay for three more months, but I miss London and my flat. I’m glad you are working with Sherlock again._

 

 

* * *

 

_Four months after Sherlock’s return_

 

He can’t take his eyes off her, drinking her in and feeling like a nervous teenager on a date with his first crush. Greg knows this woman. He knows Molly. Intimately.

 

Knew her.

 

They both sit in a small café near the university. Molly clutches her mug with two fingers, savouring the warmth of her hot chocolate. Greg stirs his coffee just to keep his hands occupied. A simple ‘hello’ and a few muttered instructions on their way to the café are all they have uttered since they were more or less thrown out by Prof. Wilkinson, claiming that another student also needs a chance. Greg is sure that this is just a ruse, but he doesn’t complain. After all, he only needs the results of her examination and watching Molly playing with her hair is a far better way to pass the time than watching some lab magic. Even if it is certainly one of the most awkward meetings he has ever had.

 

He takes another sip from his coffee, frowns at how much it has cooled down. How can this be so hard? They used to be so good together, so good at speaking with each other. And now he is afraid, afraid that this mini chance slips through his fingers. Looking up from his mug he catches her gaze. She looks wary, her brown eyes immediately guarded by long lashes as if they might betray too much.

 

“How long have you been here?”

 

It is not the best start, but it is neutral enough. He is treading carefully.

 

“Three months. When Sherlock offered me …”

 

“Sherlock offered you?” He can’t stop the question and wishes he could as she grows defensive.

 

“Yes.” It is a statement, challenging him. He doesn’t accept, reins in his emotions.

 

“A thank you?” He makes it sound like a question but they both know it isn’t.

 

“I always wanted to take this course, but the fees … When Sherlock offered, …”

 

“You couldn’t say no.” He finishes for her.

 

“No.”

 

Of course not, why should she. They both grow silent again, looking through the café as if it offers the answers. A thought occurs to him.

 

“You’ve been here since August, so who was the guy in the flat?”

 

He sees surprise flickering over her face and maybe the hint of a smile.

 

“Jason, my cousin.”

 

“The one from the Maldives?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What’s he doing in England?”

 

“Career change, wants to figure out something new.”

 

His phone rings before the awkwardness can return. It’s Prof. Wilkinson’s other assistant, with the results. When he rings off, he apologises, but Molly just shakes her head.

 

“It’s your job, that’s why you’re here.”

 

He wonders if it is only in his imagination that she sounds a bit disappointed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Text message from Greg Lestrade to Molly Hooper (sent)_

_I’m not sure if it can be described as working with Sherlock, but I’ll do my best. I’m sorry to hear you miss London, I thought Edinburgh had a lot to offer._

 

 

* * *

 

 

_One week after Sherlock’s return_

 

It takes Greg a moment to orient himself in the semidarkness of the pub. The room is moderately filled, but most of the attention is on the screens playing the match. He gets himself a pint at the bar and chooses a table at the corner, away from most of the noise and with his back to something solid. Some instincts are hard to come by and years of training don’t let him fight the need to have a wall against his back.

 

It’s the other thing he fights, the resolution not to drown his problems in alcohol. He has seen too many colleagues fighting the demons that come with the job, with a bottle or more. Greg has sworn on his father’s grave not to go that way, but right now it’s more than a simple temptation brushed away with a sniff of ale, reminding him of his childhood. Right now it’s the simple need to forget, forget that everything he had built from scratch, his whole private life, has gone to hell.

 

He takes a large gulp. And then another one, swallowing the misery until his glass is empty and he orders more.

 

A simple flick of the hand. A new glass. Swallowing.

 

After the fourth round he starts feeling the effects. The slight dizziness, the lack of coordination. He still stares at the bottom of his glass, fascinated by the foam pattern. Right now would be the time he usually stops and goes home, but today he ignores all his warning signs and just continues in his established ritual for the day.

 

Greg has no idea how much time has passed. He is vaguely aware that the game on the telly has changed as well as the crowd. The pub gets filled with the evening crowd and sometimes people stand beside his table or pass it on the way to the loo. But otherwise he stays undisturbed and it takes him a while to notice the figure waiting next to him.

 

Alcohol slows his reactions and he registers that Sherlock stands beside him, a complete alien figure in the everyman crowd of the pub. The detective radiates disdain, wearing a scowl on his face.

 

“Lestrade.”

 

Greg hasn’t thought that one could put so much disapproval in one word.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

He is pretty sure his articulation is slightly off, a suspicion that is confirmed by an even deeper frown on the detective’s face.

 

“You should stop.”

 

“No.”

 

“Lestrade …” the detective begins again, but Greg interrupts him.

 

“No, go away.”

 

“You are being an idiot.” It’s such an utterly Sherlock statement although uttered without the usual dismissive attitude. For a moment he is taken back in time.

 

“Well, I was good enough for the past years.”

 

Confusion passes over Sherlock’s features.

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

What does he mean? As if there was any question what Greg was talking about?

 

“Molly.”

 

Of course, Sherlock rolls his eyes to that.

 

“Oh, dear god, there is nothing between me and her.”

 

Just years of a pretty obvious crush, not to mention that she helped him by lying to his closest friends.

 

“I’ve saw you.”

 

“Saw me?” The question comes with a superiorly raised eyebrow, how typical.

 

“Yes, you and Molly. Convenient that I was out of the picture, wasn’t it?”

 

And now an exasperated sigh, this conversation got better and better.

 

“You are talking nonsense. It was simply …”

 

He has had enough, enough of the arrogant wanker ruining his career, his life.

 

“I’m not interested. I have had enough. You and your grand plan and your grand return. Did you know what you did to me? Did you even care? You ruined my life. Ever thought about that?”

 

“Lestrade …”

 

But the words keep flowing out of his mouth as if they had only been waiting for the right signal.

 

“No, of course not, why would you? The great Sherlock Holmes staying above everything. Did you know that every single one of my cases was reviewed? Every single one. Even those you weren’t working on. Oh yes, I was allowed to stay at the yard but only under supervision. No cases for me, just running errands for other detectives. That’s what I worked my arse off all those years for. To be the delivery man for others. Oh, and the best of all, my wife left me. Great, isn’t it?”

 

“For god’s sake, that’s hardly my fault and she did you a favour. After all, you and Molly …”

 

“Yes, me and Molly. Until you come back and now it’s the same as ever. The great Sherlock Holmes makes a grand entrance and we are simply there to watch as the world starts turning around you.”

 

It seems Greg has managed to leave Sherlock speechless, a sight he hasn’t seen often. He suddenly wishes he was sober enough to indulge a little more in the moment, but this just brings back the reasons why he started drinking in the first place.

 

“Leave me alone, Sherlock”, he asks quietly.

 

Apparently Sherlock can’t go quietly.

 

“I really don’t understand what she sees in you.”

 

Greg won’t admit that he wondered about that too.

 

“You can hardly talk. I thought you died for me.”

 

For a moment Sherlock looks utterly vulnerable.

 

“Yes, I did”, he murmurs before he turns around and leaves. Greg is not as relieved as he thought he would be.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Text message from Molly Hooper to Greg Lestrade (sent)_

_I don’t miss the town; I miss the people in it._

 

 

* * *

 

 

_The day of Sherlock’s return_

 

“How can I ever trust you again?” The angry shout explodes in the flat and leaves nothing but harsh breathing in his wake. Greg can see tears shimmering in her eyes and the trembling of her lips. Molly reaches out with one hand, but he can’t stand it. Can’t stand her touch at the moment, can’t … can’t stand her at the moment. And Greg moves backwards, out of reach. Her arm falls down, she bites her lip and for one long second he follows the one tear that falls out of her eyelashes.

 

“Greg, please let me explain…” She is begging right now, but that just makes it worse. He takes his eyes away from her, looks around at the flat. At her flat. Yes, there are some changes, things he had brought into this relationship. He had thought they were just fitting like two pieces of a puzzle. But right now he feels the fake dents and some holes and it is as if they belong on opposite sides.

 

“Greg, please …”, she begs again and he looks back to her.

 

“What do you want to explain? That Sherlock faked his death and you let me believe it? You knew that I felt guilty, you knew I had nightmares. And his lie was more important to you than me.”

 

“No, no, Greg, please. That’s not …”

 

“I really don’t care right now. And even worse I don’t think I will ever believe another word you say to me.”

 

With that he grabs his coat, his phone and his wallet, purposely leaving the keys behind as he walks out of their flat. He closes the door carefully behind him, although he feels more like smashing it. But he doubts that the blast of it could feel more final than the silent thud.

 

For a moment he just stands in front of the door, tilts his head back and sighs. When he hears one of the neighbours above stepping outside their door, he starts moving. He leaves the house and just walks  aimlessly. Right now he doesn’t feel like people, and doesn’t feel like being trapped in a hotel room while his world just crumbles down.

 

He is angry, still so angry. At Sherlock for causing this fucking drama as if the world is just his stage. But the remains of the guilt are still there. The guilt that is part of the job when you can’t save a junkie, when you find a body that it is still warm and you missed their murderer by just a few moments. When you have to let someone go although you know with every fibre of your being that he is guilty. Or when someone jumps to their death after you tried to arrest them.

 

At the moment he still doesn’t know how to feel about Sherlock’s return. But he is absolutely sure how he feels about Molly. Her betrayal that hurts worse than the infidelity of his wife. Or the fact that his wife left him during the investigation regarding Sherlock. No, Molly had seen him. Had seen him at the morgue when he stood there in the face of Mycroft Holmes who was staring at him with those cold grey eyes. He still knew how he had flinched because of the cold fury he could read and he had been so thankful when Molly had led him away. Away to John who was in a worse state than he was. Simply sitting on the floor. Even today Greg wasn’t sure if John had recognised him that day when he had driven him home to where Mrs Hudson had waited.

 

And she had seen him after the funeral; she had listened to him when he told her everything about his first meeting with Sherlock, their first case. And she had held him all night, whispering soothing words when the furious grey eyes chased him to a body with a pale face covered with dark curls and crimson.

 

And she knew, she fucking knew it the whole time.

 

He has no idea how long he walks, isn’t sure where he ends up when the first fire of anger is burnt away, leaving only the bitterness behind. Somehow he finds a cab and a driver who knows a decent and affordable hotel.

 

The off licence across from the hotel is still open and he lies in his bed, leaning against the headboard with the bottle of cheap whisky in his hand. He stares into the darkness of his room, only illuminated by a lonely streetlight and a passing car and while he can’t sleep he realises that it was a mistake to leave the key behind. But having to buy new clothes is more appealing right now than going back.

 

* * *

 

 

_Text message from Greg Lestrade to Molly Hooper (sent)_

_I thought you’d be happy to be far away from me right now._

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Four months after Sherlock’s return_

 

Greg is not surprised when he arrives at his office and finds Sherlock waiting for him. He is however a bit surprised when he notices that his pc is still off and all his files are as neatly stacked as he left them. Not that he doesn’t think Sherlock capable of organising everything the way it was, but somehow he has the feeling that the detective simply sat in his office, waiting for him. Obviously the other man notices his surprise and raises an eyebrow questioningly.

 

“I thought you would harass me about the case.”

 

“Boring, I already solved it.”

 

 “You already … of course you did. And who was it if I may ask?”

 

It’s strange standing in his office and discussing a case with Sherlock. Just like old times, just like before.

 

“Lestrade, you saw the lab report. It was the uncle obviously, only he has that kind of special knowledge.”

 

“How did you get the lab report? Molly?”

 

It’s strange that Greg still feels anger at the thought of Molly giving Sherlock access to data about crime scenes. He should have gotten used to it by now.

 

“No, Prof. Wilkinson. She thought I might find it interesting.”

 

“And so she hands out lab reports to civilians. Why not publish it on her facebook profile?”

 

“Really, Lestrade, she doesn’t have a facebook account.” Sherlock stands up from Greg’s chair and starts walking towards the door.

 

“Stop. Where are you going? You didn’t even tell me why you were here in the first place?”

 

“Lestrade, don’t be an idiot”, the line is delivered with a slight smirk. “You don’t want to work with me. And as long as you don’t listen to Molly’s explanation you won’t be of any use to me.”

 

“Of use? Are you fucking kidding me? Of use? You brought me the greatest trouble of my career. Not to mention your thing with Molly. How dare you …?”

 

Sherlock swirls around and leans over him, his grey eyes burning with a dangerous fire. His voice is ice cold when he interrupts him.

 

“I dare because I saved your life. And Molly saved your life. And if you stop wallowing in self-pity for just one second you would see that it was harder for Molly than for you.”

 

“Right, because she had to keep quiet about your little secret?”

 

“Yes. Because she had to keep my secret. Because she had to lie to you. Every single day. Because I told her that you might die if she told you the truth. If you want to put blame on someone, don’t put it on Molly. Put it on me. Or better put it on Moriarty who made this whole lie necessary.”

 

Greg is taken aback by Sherlock’s speech. For the first time he wonders what the detective might have done in his time away, wonders if he ever will tell. It’s not the right time to ask though, so he concentrates on the one point that seems more important right now.

 

“What do you mean ‘you told her I might die’? I thought it was just the day …”

 

He trails off as the anger in Sherlock’s expression fades away, exhaustion and sadness turning Sherlock’s features years older.

 

“Moriarty’s network. They were watching you. And John. And Mrs Hudson. If they suspected anything they would have had you killed. Did you never wonder why Sergeant Clijnstra disappeared so suddenly?”

 

“Clijnstra? You mean …?”

 

“Moriarty’s mole, right under your nose.”

 

“Fuck.”

 

Sherlock’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t say anything else, just seems to wait for a hint from Lestrade how to proceed. As if Greg knows. He thinks about everything Sherlock has just told him. And of course the detective is right; he has never looked at it from another angle. But he hadn’t had all the information _. Maybe it was  in the letter_ ; he can hear his inner voice say. _Maybe you could have known all along._

 

The sound of the elevator wakes him from his thoughts and he decides to think about it when he is alone, to read the letter, maybe to apologise.

 

“I guess I should thank you then.”

 

Judging from the look Sherlock gives him that was not the right thing to say. But instead of an acerbic response the detective simply shrugs.

 

“I just hope I don’t have to do it again.”

 

“Amen to that.”

 

He looks at Sherlock for a moment longer. “So how do I prove that it was the uncle.”

 

Greg receives another eyeroll for the question but he can see that is only half-hearted.

 

“Just look at his credit card history and his purchases from Vietnam.”

 

“Okay, will do.”

 

Sherlock simply nods before he turns again, walking out of his office.

 

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

 

Only the slight hesitation in Sherlock’s step shows that the detective has heard him.

 

* * *

 

 

_Text message from Molly Hooper to Greg Lestrade (sent)_

_I don’t think I will ever be happy to be away from you._

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Seven months after Sherlock’s return_

 

The original plan is to take the early train, try to get some extra hours of sleep and then pick up the rental car. The reality is slightly different. Greg almost misses the train, can’t sleep because his mind races with every possible and some impossible ‘what if”-scenarios. He tries to concentrate on the rattle of the wheels, willing them to lull him into sleepiness, but he can’t bring his body to obey him. In the end he settles with a coffee in his seat, staring at the country running by, slowly awakening to a beautiful morning.

 

He is nervous, definitely, in the state when he wishes the day to be over so that he knows how everything went and can then rewind to really live the moment. But life doesn’t work that way and so he stands in front of the Medical Department of the University and waits for Molly. She has written to him about her course ending today and wondering what to do with the little free time that is left before she returns to Bart’s.

 

It had sounded like an invitation and as Greg waits in the sunshine in front of the university in Edinburgh, he hopes that he hasn’t misunderstood her emails or the one text that is secured in his mobile. He shifts from one foot to another and swipes his sweating hands on his trousers. Just when he is debating with himself whether he should risk running into the café nearby to get another coffee, Molly leaves the building. She doesn’t see him at first, and he can drink the  sight in while calming his galloping heart.

 

Greg waves, feeling foolish, but it is forgotten, when she smiles and comes straight to him.

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

Her eyes are shining and he can only smile at her.

 

“Picking you up. Inviting you on a holiday.”

 

“A holiday?”

 

“Yes, I hoped … well, I hoped we could start again. Spending time with each other”, he spins around grabs his bag from the backseat of the rental and hands her a brochure. “Here, it is a little cottage at Loch Awe.” She just looks at him and he continues. “It has two bedrooms, I wouldn’t presume … I mean you can go on your own if you want. I can give you the car…”

 

Greg is aware that he is babbling, but Molly looks at him with her big brown eyes and he doesn’t dare to trust what he is seeing there, afraid of his wishful thinking making things up. It takes her laughing and throwing her arms around his neck to make him believe it, that he has another chance. He wraps his arms around her, letting his head drop to her neck, inhaling her scent.

 

“God, I missed you.”

 

She moves one hand in his hair, gently persuading him to lift his head and when he does, she whispers softly “I missed you, too” before she kisses him. It is a chaste brush of lips, not enough. He chases her mouth when she draws away, murmuring “I missed you so much”. Their lips find each other again, eager and deep, tongues exploring familiar territory and tasting home.

 

Greg has no idea how long they stand there, tightly wrapped around each other, relieved because of the second chance. When they finally part, they do so in slow motion, fingers entangled until Molly has to let go. He smiles at her, watching her every step until she stands at the opposite site of the car.

 

Her smile turns slightly wicked as she states: “I really don’t think we need two bedrooms.” Grinning Greg slides behind the wheel and can’t resist stealing another fast kiss before he starts the car.

 


End file.
